Funny Money (21 page)

She whispered a name in his ear. Rising, he started to walk out of the forest and back to his rental.

“Please . . .”
she called after him.

The wind whistled through the trees, their branches carrying the words to a song.
She's as sweet as Tupelo Honey. She's as sweet as honey from a bee.
He knew every word by heart, because Doyle had sung that song every day of his life. He felt his hands start to tremble and realized it had nothing to do with the cold.

37

Bally's

Y
ou know what a pack rat Doyle was,” Liddy said.

Valentine stood in the foyer of Liddy's house, staring at a pile of Doyle's stuff in the middle of the living room floor that she was about to throw away. It was stuff he could relate to. Old record albums, bundled copies of
Life
magazine, and an old wooden tennis racket in a frame.

“I want you to go out of town for a few days.”

Liddy frowned. “I'm not ready for that, Tony.”

“I think you'd better. I found out who's ripping off The Bombay.”

She sat down on the couch, a pained look on her face.

“Is it bad?”

“Yes,” he said.

Liddy had a cousin in Vermont. She wrote the phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. Valentine promised to call as soon as he could. She walked him to the door. Then said, “Wait,” and returned a few moments later holding a fax. “The dry cleaner found this in Doyle's jacket.”

He slipped his bifocals on. It was a purchase order for fifty Series E Micro-Processor–Controlled Slot Machines from Bally's Gaming in Nevada, the largest manufacturer of slots in the world.

“Can I keep this?”

“Of course.”

He stuffed the fax into his pocket and gave her a hug.

         

He drove to the Philadelphia airport and dropped his rental off. He found Kat sitting on a bench next to the Delta ticket counter, her daughter in a nearby arcade playing video games.

“I need a cigarette,” he said.

Next to the arcade was a special glassed-in room for smokers. He'd always looked down his nose at the people who sat in such places, puffing away furiously, and now he found himself sharing a bench with a couple of diehards. Kat sat beside him, holding his hand.

Zoe sauntered in. “Are you my mother's new boyfriend?”

Valentine hemmed and hawed. The French probably had some cute word for his relationship with Kat, but the English language was void of such niceties.

“That's me,” he said.

“Aren't you a little old?”

“Zoe!”

She stared at her mother. “You know what they call these rooms?”

“No, honey, I don't.”

“Nicotine aquariums.”

She kept up the monologue all the way to the Delta ticket counter. Valentine inquired about the next flight to Tampa. The ticket agent said, “How about right now?”

Valentine looked at the big board above the agent's head. The noon flight to Tampa hadn't left. The agent explained the situation.

“The plane needed some repairs. Nothing serious. I can still get all three of you on.”

“I also need to go to Palm Beach,” Valentine said.

“That's the Tampa flight's final destination,” the agent said.

Valentine laid his credit card on the counter.

“How much luggage?” the agent asked.

“None,” he said.

         

“Why are we going to Florida without any luggage?” Zoe wanted to know when they were seated in the very last row. The plane had been sitting at the gate for hours and was filled with the living dead.

Kat patted her daughter's arm. “Well, honey, Tony asked me so suddenly, I just didn't have time to pack.”

The pilot came over the PA and announced that it would be another ten minutes before they left. A collective groan filled the cabin. Kat and Zoe started to spar, the little girl masterful at pushing her mother's buttons. Borrowing Kat's cell phone, Valentine ducked into the lavatory. He dialed Mabel's number.

“Oh Tony, you're not going to believe what happened,” his neighbor said.

“What?”

“I took your advice and called my neighbor. He came over and rescued me from Cujo. Actually, he just opened the back door, and the dog ran out.

“Well, everything was fine until an hour ago. I was in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea. I was standing at the stove when I heard this sound. Like a rat gnawing at wood. It was coming from the back door, so I ducked down. Then I heard a voice. It was a man and he was swearing under his breath, saying motherf***ing this and motherf***ing that, like it was the first word he'd ever learned. And then it hit me. It was a burglar. Well, you'll never guess what happened next.”

“A cop showed up.”

“Be serious!”

“Your neighbor came to your rescue.”

“Strike two.”

“For Christ's sake, what happened?”

“Cujo rescued me. He was in the backyard and came flying through the bushes. He attached himself to the burglar's butt, and they went dancing down the street.”

There was a knock on the bathroom door. He opened it. Zoe stood outside, her legs crossed.

“You gonna stay in there all day?”

“Sure am.”

Valentine shut the door. Then said, “Mabel, I wanted to tell you something.”

“What's that?” his neighbor said.

“I met a woman, and she's coming home with me. I wanted you to know.”

For a moment he thought Mabel had hung up on him.

“Does that mean I can't work for you anymore?” she asked.

Valentine felt a lump in his throat.

“No, of course not.”

“I need to do something with my life,” Mabel said. “I admire you for doing something with yours. I just hope this situation won't turn into one where I can't work for you anymore.”

“It won't,” he said.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Should I meet you at the airport?”

Valentine smiled into the phone.

“That would be great.”

The pilot came over the PA and told everyone to get into their seats. Zoe was still outside when he unlatched the lavatory door.

“Asshole,” she muttered, hurtling past him.

He took his seat and buckled up. Kat was looking out the little window at a man on the tarmac waving orange flags at the pilot. She glanced his way. “You were gone awhile.”

“Sorry. You and Zoe patch things up?”

“I missed you,” she said.

She leaned across the empty seat and kissed him like the world was about to end and this one had better mean something. When she pulled away, he was seeing stars.

“I missed you, too,” he said.

38

Palm Beach

M
abel was at the gate when they disembarked. She was wearing Terminator shades, and at her side was one of the scariest-looking dogs Valentine had ever seen. Pure black, about seventy pounds of muscle, with a black tongue that stuck an inch out of its mouth, its hackle sticking straight up.

“How did you get that monster in here?”

“I told the airport people I was legally blind,” she said.

“A dog,” Zoe squealed with delight. She grabbed Valentine's sleeve. “You didn't tell me you owned a dog!”

Before any of them knew what was happening, the child from hell was rolling around on the floor with the dog from hell.

“Zoe, stop this nonsense this instant,” Kat said, leaning over to scold her. “You're embarrassing yourself, and me.”

“I cleaned up your house a little, turned down the beds,” Mabel informed him, angling to get a better look at Kat. “You really do need to get a housekeeper.”

Valentine saw no reason to delay things. He tapped Kat on the shoulder and said, “Kat, I want you to meet Mabel Struck.”

Kat stood up and stuck her hand out. The braid in her hair had come undone, and her black mane lay seductively on her bosom. Valentine heard a loud click as Mabel's jaw came unhinged.

“Tony's told me all about you,” Kat said, pumping Mabel's hand.

“No kidding,” his neighbor said.

“Said he couldn't run his business without you.”

His neighbor was smiling mischievously, taking the whole thing better than Valentine had expected. Like she was
proud
of him.

“So how did you two meet?” Mabel asked.

“Well, you're not going to believe this,” Kat said.

“Try me.”

“Tony came to my gym and started a fight.”

“He did
what?”
Mabel said.

“It's a long story, but we got it worked out.”

“A fight, as in he hit you?”

Kat giggled. “Tony bloodied my nose.”

Mabel stared in horror at him.
“You beast!”

The flight to Palm Beach was boarding. Mabel's eyes were burning his face. And Zoe's. And every other person milling around the gate. Which was why Valentine got himself on the plane as fast as humanly possible.

         

Only in Florida could you rent a sporty BMW with nine hundred miles on the odometer for forty bucks a day.

He crossed the bridge into Palm Beach, his headlights shining on the array of brightly lit yachts and sleek cabin cruisers dotting the Intercoastal waterway. Rich men's toys with names like
Uptick
and
Margin Call,
the crews dressed in gleaming white uniforms, mopping down teak decks beneath a gibbous moon.

On the island, traffic was heavy, the road reduced to one lane because of construction. He inched down the main drag looking for County Road. He found it when he thought he was lost, and hung a left that took him into a residential area with Mediterranean-style houses with barrel tile roofs. Expensive, but nothing fancy.

Past the entrance for the Breakers Resort, the scenery changed. Houses grew into mansions with six-foot stucco walls that hugged the narrow beach. The speed limit dropped to twenty-five miles per hour, and he inched past driveways lined with gleaming Rolls-Royces and expensive Italian sports cars.

He remembered Archie's mansion from a magazine article. Archie had built a monstrosity that blocked his neighbors' view of the ocean. He found the place with little trouble, Archie's initials adorning the front gate. He drove into the servant's entrance and parked behind a white caterer's van.

He waited for someone to come out and tell him to beat it. When that didn't happen, he got out of the rental, and stuck his head through the azalea bushes.

Light streamed out of every window of Archie's place. He shifted his gaze to the limo parked by the front door. The plates were government issued, and the driver wore a uniform.

Rifling through the caterer's van, Valentine found a white waiter's jacket and put it on. It didn't clash with his pants, and he grabbed a serving tray and balanced it on his palm.

Going into strange places had never bothered him. Back when he was in uniform, he'd investigated a department store robbery. The thieves had walked into the store, hoisted a twenty-foot canoe onto their shoulders, and walked out. It was all a matter of attitude.

He opened the back door and walked into the kitchen. The room was huge, with two refrigerators, two stoves, and two of everything that most people only needed one of. It was also empty. From the back of the house, a man's angry words punctuated the air. He took a plate of pastries off the counter and balanced them on his tray, then followed the voice down a cavernous hallway.

He passed the living room. A trio of musicians played in the corner. At the hallway's end, he found the help hovering outside a closed door. He edged closer. “What's going on?”

“The governor's on a rampage,” a Cuban woman in a maid's uniform whispered. “He's going loco.”

Everyone was grinning, enjoying this little perk to their day. Through the door he heard the governor say, “. . . and look where your plan's gotten me, Arch—just look! I've got a shit storm on my hands that gets bigger every time I turn on the television. The Indians haven't been this mad since we stole Manhattan from them. And you want me to do what?”

“Wait a few days, let it blow over,” Archie said.

“It's not going to blow over,” the governor bellowed. “Death by delay doesn't work with the media. I'm the Bad Guy of the Month, and if I don't do something fast, I'm going to become an ugly footnote to the Year in Review.”

“You can't give in,” Archie said. “Casino gambling is your salvation. Hundreds of millions in taxes. This thing will blow over. They're just Indians. No one cared about them before, and no one's going to care about them next week.”

“How many million?” the governor said.

“Three hundred million a year, easy.”

“You can generate that much in taxes?”

“More,” Archie said emphatically.

“That's a lot of money.”

The governor was caving in. Next they'd be drinking a toast. Valentine grabbed the door handle and twisted it. The help scattered.

He entered with the tray hiding his face. Five people sat at an ornate dining room table. Archie, Brandi, Florida's baby-faced governor, and two of his handlers. Dinner was over, a turkey's carcass in the table's center. It was the Indians who'd introduced the Pilgrims to turkey, not that Valentine thought any of these people would see the significance.

“Here's dessert,” Archie said. “Pastries flown in from La Bonn in Paris. Governor, you've never tasted cream puffs like these.”

The governor smiled beatifically. It was obvious that he really liked cream puffs. Valentine placed the tray down. Then took out his business card and dropped it on the governor's plate. The governor stared at the card, then up at him.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Name's Tony Valentine. I'm a private investigator.”

“And?”

“Archie is running a crooked operation. I thought you'd like to know before you make any agreements with him.”

Archie rose from his chair. He was wearing a tuxedo and had tucked the tablecloth into his trousers. He swiped at it angrily. “He's a crazy old man. Don't listen to him.”

“You know this person?” the governor asked.

Archie sputtered. “He was doing a job for me. But he went nuts. Just last night—”

“Archie,” the governor said.

“Yes?”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes, governor.”

“Sit down.” The governor turned to Valentine. “Where's your proof?”

Valentine pointed at Brandi. “Ask her.”

All eyes fell on Brandi. Her wardrobe tonight was particularly stunning. A simple black dress and a choker of glistening diamonds. She looked at the governor and nodded.

“Archie's running a skim,” she said quietly.

“As in skimming money, and not paying taxes?”

“That's right.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since he's owned The Bombay,” she replied.

“How long is that?”

“Twenty-three years.”

One of the governor's handlers stood up. He had ex–Secret Service written all over him. Early fifties, crew cut, a face as blunt as a nail. He whispered in the governor's ear.

“How much money are we talking about?” the governor asked.

“Twenty million,” she said. “Maybe more.”

The governor leaned back in his chair. The media often portrayed him as being stupid, but Valentine had never bought that label. Thickheaded, yes, but not stupid. The governor whispered to his handlers. It was the ex–Secret Service guy who answered him.

“Sounds like real trouble.”

“And I'm stepping right in the middle of it.”

“With both feet,” the ex–Secret Service guy said.

The governor balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. He rose from the table. “Thanks for dinner.”

Archie looked a heartbeat away from a stroke. “For God's sake, governor, let me explain.”

“No,” the governor said forcefully.

“What about our deal?”

“No deal,” the governor said.

         

The governor and his handlers left. Archie fell into his chair. The blood had drained from his face. He wiped at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Then he stared at Brandi.

“You've ruined me.”

Brandi stared down at the uneaten food on her plate.

“Why?” he said.

Brandi's Gucci purse sat on a table by the door. Valentine dumped its contents onto the table. Among her things was a pearl-handled revolver and pair of dog tags. He picked up the revolver and pointed it at her.

“Because she hates you,” Valentine said. He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. “The part I couldn't figure out was why. But then it occurred to me that a lot of things haven't made sense over the past few days.”

He put the barrel of the revolver under Brandi's chin, and made her look at him. “Like the raid on the Micanopy casino. Running Bear released dozens of alligators and chased the FDLE agents away. Those alligators didn't appear out of thin air. Someone alerted him.

“Or the Indian tribes around the country staging protests. I've done work for the Indians. As far as I know, they don't have any kind of communications network. Which meant someone alerted
them
to what was going on with the Micanopys. And that someone was you.”

Brandi nodded, her eyes never leaving his face.

“What I couldn't figure out was your motive. But then I remembered our little chat in Sinbad's. You said you came from a mixed family. Stupid me. I thought that meant one of your parents was white. I was wrong. One of your parents is Indian.”

“My mother was a Seminole,” she said quietly.

“Not a Micanopy?”

“That would explain a lot to you, wouldn't it?”

“It would be a start.”

She smiled thinly. “The Micanopys are like family to me. They were the first reservation to have casino gambling, and they let other tribes work in their casinos. My mother worked there, my father worked there, and so do my cousins.” Her eyes shifted, and she stared at Archie. “I wasn't going to let you destroy them.”

“That explains the stealing,” Valentine said. “But it doesn't explain the killing.”

“That was Coleman and Marconi's idea,” she said, still staring at Archie. “Once things started to unravel, they decided to get rid of anyone who could implicate them.”

He twitched the gun's barrel and saw her wince. Her eyes shifted to his face.

“That's not what I meant. Gigi told me you were the one who pulled the switch that killed Doyle. I want to know why.”

Brandi's features turned hard as stone. She no longer resembled the beautiful woman sitting in the chair a moment ago.

“He got in the way,” she said.

Valentine punched her in the face.

         

Valentine stuck the revolver beneath his jacket and watched her slide out of her chair and onto the marble floor. Kneeling, he pulled back one of her eyelids. She was out cold.

Archie came over and stood next to him.

“You said she was stealing from me. How?”

“Slots,” Valentine said.

“Is there anyone else involved.”

“A whole shift. Plus surveillance. And probably others.”

The casino owner made a fist and punched his other hand.

“What about my bodyguards? And my staff down here? Is there anyone I can trust?”

“No,” Valentine said. He gathered Brandi up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Let's go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to Atlantic City.”

         

They entered the kitchen with Archie telling the cook and kitchen staff she'd passed out from something she ate, and how dare they serve such crummy fucking food. Out in the driveway, Valentine opened the back door of the BMW.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” the casino owner said.

“Why not?”

“Because she's a black belt in karate.”

Valentine popped the BMW's trunk and looked for air holes so she wouldn't suffocate. Then he lay the unconscious woman into the tight space. Throwing the waiter's uniform into the bushes, he got behind the wheel and waited for Archie to belt himself in before starting the car.

It wasn't easy, but he managed to do the speed limit through the tony neighborhood while staring in his rearview mirror. No one from Archie's mansion followed them. Soon he reached the middle of Palm Beach's downtown. He stopped at a light. He was sweating, and he jacked up the air conditioner.

He stared at the line of chauffeured cars parked in front of Tom and Jack's fashionable eatery. A decorative sign heralded the restaurant's stone crab special. A pound of giant claws for only seventy-five dollars.